The garnered wisdom of a bygone age,
And rising upon these, the glowing page
Of those whose rising star doth not yet bow
To the chill hand of age, which, here below,
Nips the fresh flowers of poet and of sage,
I seem like a poor birdling in a cage
Watching a lovely rose that wide doth blow,
And spreads its leaves to heaven, pure and still:
And we but smell its sweets, pass heedless by,
Or, haply, nestling like some honey-bee
Within its inmost breast, we drink our fill,
But soon, brain-sick, we fall away and die,
Alas! alas! that death so soon should be.
B. W. W.